


Hawke's Story

by cynnamon



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynnamon/pseuds/cynnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric tells Hawke's story well. Better than he could. Better than he'd want to. But his story is already being told and there is one thing that only Hawke can tell you. These words may never see the light of day but if his story is to go down in history, somewhere there must be a record of his side of things. Something to let them know how and why. What he felt. And most of all, how very sorry he is that any of this ever happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is based on a series of short ficlets I wrote as the game progressed the first time I played it. I have not decided exactly when he began to write these passages on his life, if they were started after the events of the game took place or sometime during them. Because of this everything is subject to change.

There are only a few moments in my life that I have ever felt entirely helpless. Though I admit there are many atimes despair breeds the feeling of helplessness in me the feeling never consumed me. Not like the spread of the blight did. 

I have lived my whole life being hunted. I could never know what awaited me around the corner or if the hunters even knew that I was prey to them. All the same fear followed me until it worked its way into my bones. I knew from a young age that I would not live to grow old. The Templars would get me, or the demons. Some foe I had made through sheer existence. Death, possession, tranquility, captivity. They were the only options for me and any would suffice as the end of my life. It was a tiresome burden. 

I was born to a family that shared this burden threefold. My father before me, and my sister after me. My mother and brother lived lives of little more comfort. Just one apostate would be enough to end a family. With three under one roof… Every moment my father, sister, and I spent living thrust us each into further danger. Such was life living outside the law. But even thus I never felt entirely helpless. Helpless, yes, but I always had options. 

Upon making it to Kirkwall there were only four moments I recall in which helplessness seized every fiber of my being. The loss of Theo, the day my father died, the darkspawn invasion, and my sister’s subsequent death. It was the last two that I grappled, and now even still, to deal with. 

 With the deaths of Theo and my father there came, at least, a sense of purpose. A way to make sense of things or the inspiration to become more than I was. Each changed me profoundly. Theo showed me a part of who I was, my Father a part I had to be. There was strength to be pulled from their tragedies. Watching my village burn to the ground as everyone I knew fled or was slaughtered… There was nothing to pull from such an experience. Nothing I could do to prevent it. I watched as innocent people died.

 When my family at last too fled, then came the moment that I wished that we hadn’t. I saw only a glimpse of the awful creature before my dear sister threw herself to its mercy. She fought so that we might live. She died and took a piece of each of us. 

 I often think that it would be better had it been me. That I might wish we had never left at all. That perhaps, if it happened differently, Bethany might still be among us. But there is no room for that thought. Not with what father’s death taught me. 

 I was born to protect my family. Mother, Carver, Bethany, the others as they came along. My failure with Bethany could not end this purpose. They needed me and I would provide what I could. I like to think myself a good man. More and more I struggle to reason that this is true but if goodness can be measured in love I have light to spare. 

 Nothing means more to me than family and I will do what I must to see they survive. I pray the maker that by doing what I must I do not lose the good I hold in me. That is, assuming the Maker truly does grant good and magic simultaneously.


	2. The Red Iron

My life has, in a way, always been choosing the lesser of two evils. From the moment I was born I was a fugitive of the law. True, it was my parents choice to keep my magic hidden but I knew what the choice meant. I could have chosen the circle later. But when freed of captivity it is hard to see the law keeping others that way as justice.  


I knew what being an apostate meant in the eyes of the Chantry and those who saw its teachings as absolutes. I’d even met some who proved they were not all wrong. But I knew more who proved they were not right either. I never thought of my status as any show of my person. I was not bad because the Templars deemed it so. It wasn’t until I reached Kirkwall that I began to question my person.  


Desperate situations make hypocrites of us all.  


Before coming to Kirkwall I had killed only once. Even then few would have seen him as a person. Once you know someone as one, however, it is hard to unsee it, no matter what they become.  


My friend Theo was one of the few other apostates that I ever met with any frequency in Fereldan. He understood me in a way that no other had and for that I loved him. He was my first friend and the first outside my family that I met who had magic. He was not a bad man but he /was/ desperate. I was thirteen at the time and Theo was just two years older. We met in secret and only a months into our friendship he came to me in a panic.  


His parents had become weary of his magic. They’d thought to turn him over to the Circle and the Templars. The idea terrified him. How could he trust the Templars not to hurt him? How could he leave his family to never see them again? To live in a tower with no self control? He turned to the only thing that he felt could help him. Blood magic. When he told me of his plans I refused to help him, begged he reconsider, but he was certain of his hypothesis. He was convinced that a pact with a desire demon could give him some ability to sway the will of others. That he could make his parents see the folly in their own plans. He swore that would be all. Afterward he would put an end to the practice. The demons would not have a chance to get to him.  


He was wrong.  


I was just thirteen and knew very little magic. Much of what I had learned was meant to heal or protect, not harm. But my father had been an apostate long before I was born. He had learned how to blend in, to protect yourself without revealing your magic. My sister and I trained alongside our brother in weapons combat. A sword fit Carver well. Bethany and I learned to use weapons within which we could hide our staves. Bethany worked with a spear and I a mace. I am certain that training is the only thing that stopped Theo’s abomination from killing me.  


Our relationship was a secret that we kept from both our families. It protected us and our family from the chantry, suspicion, and each other. Once he spoke to me about his plans, however, I broke our pact of confidentiality.  


I followed him home, a betrayal of all the promises we made to each other, and continued to keep watch of his house in the week to come. I would make my way to the area periodically and pretend to have some business to attend to. I was uncertain what I thought that this would achieve but my anxiety could not be otherwise sated.  


By the time I heard his parents screams it was already too late. I charged in with just the mace I used for practice. His parents were dead before I got there and Theo with them. The abomination was all that left of their memory.  


In truth, had it not been for the Templars the thing would had killed me. They arrived to find me drained of the little magic I had, hurt, and badly bleeding. They attempted to escort me to safety but I refused to leave until I knew that thing had relinquished control of Theo’s body. Their distraction left me relatively unnoticed by the demon who had written me off as frail and dying. I got through their forces to deliver the killing blow.  


They never learned of my magic or who I truly was. They told me I had the makings of a Templar. I had them leave me a block from my home at a house I knew to be abandoned. When I arrived home, hurt and bloodied, I had no choice but reveal the truth to my parents.  


Never have I seem them so angry. They packed us up and moved us a few towns over. Moving was not uncommon for us but this incident brought misery to all of my family and I knew that it was my fault.  


I wished to put an end to my training after the incident but my father refused to hear talk of it. He insisted that if anything I had given myself an obligation to see through with it. I was thankful of this, when the darkspawn invaded.  


I had no intention of killing again if I could help it, but my father was right. I had put upon myself an obligation. From that day forth injustice gnawed at me deeper and my concern for the safety of others was heightened. I began to access danger and do what I could to prevent it. I did not enjoy battle and wished to never kill again but something in me knew to prepare for it.  


By the time my family had reached Kirkwall the lines of morality had eroded in me. I knew what my morals were still but it had already become apparent that adhering to them and protecting my family may not be a possibility simultaneously. Once we were introduced to my uncle and I saw the only way in which he could help us that knowledge became a certainty. From that day forth almost every choice my life threw at me was a choice between two evils.  


I did not want to kill people, certainly not for a career, and least of all for sport, but life was no longer about enjoyment and I no longer had the option of honest work. Any work I did would be in servitude.  


Having this choice made for me, a reflection upon my life was met with a feeling of redundancy. For all my parents tried, in the end, I still ended up with my power and agency indebted to another. But this was better than the fate of most of those who had lived in the circle in Fereldan and there was still a choice left to me. No good one but a choice all the same.  


Whatever choice I made I knew it would impact not only me but the others. My mother, Carver, and Avaline.  


Upon our first meeting I was critical of Aveline. Her husband had been a Templar, the monster of my life’s story. But he gave his life helping to protect us and very quickly I grew to trust her. She became, in a way, a part of our family.  


The choice I made would make me a murderer or a smuggler. I knew how to use a weapon and nothing of smuggling but the initial pitch had me leaning towards the later. So long as the cargo was not people, wouldn’t that option be better than taking the lives of others? But when I met with the captain there was something… Off about her. She wouldn’t tell me of her cargo and there was a sense about her. Aveline saw it too and though I had no ambition to join the Red Iron I could not sign my life to a cause I had no concept of. At least the leader of the Red Iron was upfront and honest with me.  


I had little intention of truly taking his offer when I first approached the men he had sent me to kill. I was testing my options. I would not kill the innocent or for very petty reasons. If I must I would find some other way into Kirkwall. But when I attempted to speak with them the men attacked me and I was forced to defend myself. My training made doing so easy. I was weary of what fraternizing with these people would do to my brother and myself but it felt as though destiny had made my choice for me.  


I would work for a year and learn to live with myself afterwards. Doing so I got my family into Kirkwall and into safety. That much I could never regret. Even at the cost of living with myself becoming my greatest burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theo is a character I created the moment I started creating my Hawke's personality. This short telling of his downfall doesn't really do justice to his character or the important of his and Hawke's friendship. Perhaps I'll write something more on him later.  
> Also, the thing about apostates hiding staves in ranged weapons is a head canon I've had for quite some time that I am very fond of.


	3. Anders (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is taken from Hawke's private journal, written after having met Anders.

Sometimes meeting a person feels like filling a void you had not realized was empty. This is Anders. For all of this, I am not sure how to feel.  


Perhaps it is just that I miss Bethany. I miss her, and father, even Theo. It has been a year since I held the company of another mage that was not attempting to kill me.  


This is coming out wrong. I do not care about these people because of solely their magic. Nor are they interchangeable to me. But there is something about experiencing a struggle that brings you automatically closer with others experiencing it. Likewise, it is often more difficult to bear, without another who understands you.  


I could never be outspoken. Issues with the Templars and the Chantry, I have many. But in my life my words draw targets not just on myself but my entire family. I help my fellow mages in any way I can but drawing attention to my opinion on the matter is outside the realm of my possibility.  


Anders is like a fire cracker you can not shut off. His passion and hatred for our mistreatment exuded from his every thought, word, and action. Carver despised it immediately. For me, it was like magnetism.  


In just minutes he had, with words, brought to life feelings I could not grasp in my entire life time. I could sit and listen to him spin words about the injustice for hours. I understand him, and though I could never word such things like he can, I know that he unders me. It's a feeling I have not experienced since the day I met Theo. Like someone pulling back a thick film that always obscured me and seeing clearly something others see only rarely. 

It makes sense, in a way. My whole being is defined by my status as an apostate. It rules every moment of my life. Yet this is a fact I live every day attempting to hide. There is no hiding with Anders. Even living in a hole in a slum in fear of the Templar’s wrath, leaving rarely, staying on the radar only enough to help others the little he can while still keeping his safety… He can not help but speak out. Carver insists this is the definition of hiding. Living in a hole, running from your duties, sneaking about in the dead of night. He argues that the man was a coward and a hypocrite. The accusation fueled a rage in me I am not entirely certain the source of.  


But I get ahead of myself.  


Before I ever met Anders I learned of his name. Anders; the Grey Warden who had abandoned his post to become an apostate. He is working now running a free clinic in Darktown, using his magic to heal the sick and needy.  


Such a story paints a character for you immediately and I do admit, I had not suspected the man I met.  


For some reason I am not quite certain of my head rationalized out his desertion immediately. Though it was unheard of to me until then I took no immediate issue with it. Perhaps it is because there was an order I was meant to belong to my whole life that I had fled from since the dawn of my time. Perhaps it was the follow up knowledge of his clinic. I could understand a mage abandoning their supposed duty. I know little of substance about the Grey Wardens and less of their treatment of their mages. But a man who heals others while still in hiding? That is the sort of thing that speaks volumes on a man, as far as I can see.  


The story it told me, however, was not exactly the one I found.  


Perhaps I expected a man more like myself. I understand the paradox of a life in hiding and a desire to help people. I had assumed anyone sharing such a fate must have also adapted a stillness. Or so, that is what Bethany had called it.  


Living as I have I quickly found that life is easier as an observer. I speak relatively little until the situation calls for it and attempt a certain level of diplomacy when called into action. My family tells me that with this I have gained the habit of standing rather rigidly still. This is from where Bethany pulled her observation.  


And so I suppose that is what I was expecting- a quiet man who slipped easily into the background and deflected contact until it was purposeful or of necessity. That is far from what we encountered.  


When we first encountered him he was healing a child. Watching fellow mages heal has always left me breathless. There is a power in giving your own strength to others that goes far beyond what we think of magic. This imagery cast a spell of its own, I suppose, and the character I had built for him only strengthened.  


The child woke with a cry and the man healing him slumped, another man came to help him to the side. He had weakened himself for the safety of another and yet still, upon hearing our entrance, he wasted no time in finding some new source of energy. Swiftly he took his staff from its resting place, turning to our small party defensively; “I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”  


There was a power I could not put into words. I felt no danger personally, but I knew that had I ill intent I would be no match for him.  


“We’re just here to talk.” I said, as passively as my awe would allow.  


Varric picked up my slack.“We’re interested in getting into the Deep Roads. Rumor has it you were a Warden. Do you know a way?”  


There was a look in his eyes now. An angry caution. “Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I’m not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser-Pounce-A-Lot… He hated the Deep Roads.”  


The spell was broken immediately. The words were so… Petulant. It stunned me. I couldn’t help but find it… Endearing.  


“You had a cat named Ser Pounce A Lot? … In the Deep Roads?” I could hear the shock in my own voice and picture the stunned expression I must be wearing. I heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh and knew the source immediately. I’d have bet all the coin in my purse it was my brother’s hand meeting his own face.  


“He was a gift.” Anders defended. “A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a Genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood too. The blighted Warden said he made me too soft. I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthie.”  


He was not at all what I had been expecting and yet, somehow, he was immediately better.  


There was a level of impossibility in his tale that made the man himself hard to fathom. This man, so intense and intent about the lives of others in one second and so petulant the next, speaking of his cat with as much love as his previous words had held power… It turned a man who seemed like legend into a person. It spread a warmth through me, a sort of rush of excitement. The man I had been looking for was not only real and good but _right here in front of me. __  
_

My brother made a noise of disgust but I pushed him out, focusing intently upon convincing this man to help us. I am not sure why, but I knew that he was meant to. We agreed upon an exchange of favors. We would meet at sundown. I left with a feeling of exhilaration and a new dedication to the expedition.  


Destiny was pushing me there. I was sure of it.  


“What do you think of this Anders?” Carver asked when we reached what we now call home.  


The strange exhilaration that had come with meeting him had not yet left me. I dismissed the tone of distaste in my brother’s voice, answering somewhat breathlessly. “It’s a bit hard to believe he’s real, isn’t it?”  


“If a whole family of apostates could live and die without losing anyone to the Chantry it’s not so hard to believe a deserter of the Grey Wardens might exist also.” He said sarcastically.  


“That wasn’t my meaning.” I had said softly. I wasn’t sure how to word what I did mean. I am not still. It was like meeting a person you hadn’t dared dream to. In my case, a person who might help, and even understand me.  


I can count on one hand the number of people who have previously filled this position. All of them are dead now.  


Carver stared at me for a moment in half a glare that looked partially angered and partially disgusted before he said “No.” in a voice that was blunt and vaguely irritated. I looked at him in confusion. He looked at me like I was making him play some game. “I saw that expression you wore, when he said that thing about the cat.”  


“I don’t know what you mean.”  


“Do not play games with me, Garrett, we aren’t thirteen anymore. I know what that startled expression means.”  


I didn’t trust my voice to not betray me. My brother learned long ago that it is horribly easy to embarrass me and that when so compromised words evaded me, or play me for a fool if I dare speak them.  


“Oh, Maker. Really? Of everybody.”  


“I haven’t a clue what you mean.” I choked. Carver only stared at me. The words were lies and he knew it. I do not know what I would have done, had it not been for Aveline.  


“You achieve nothing with this, Carver.”  


“You cannot be serious, Aveline. This doesn’t bother you in the slightest?”  


“It is not I who wants in on this expedition. His feelings for the man does not concern me. Nor does it you.”  


“I have as much riding on this expedition as Garrett.”  


“And a fraction of his emotional depth.”  


His cheeks flushed pink in anger the way they do whenever somebody pushes him. “Because I wish to take our work seriously? You are impossible. The both of you.” He shot another glare at me before leaving in a huff.  


From across the room Aveline smiled at me. “You’re welcome.” She whispered before leaving behind my brother.  


I put my face in my hands and lamented the existence of the whole conversation. I do still, in truth. It is the very reason I press pen to paper. Carver is right. We are not thirteen. Our very lives may be riding on this expedition. We can not afford to act like children.  


I have spent my whole life practicing acting with diplomacy and civility. Displacing myself from a conversation and addressing it first as a matter of business, and second as a matter of personal emotion. Our relation to Anders is a matter of business and so I know that I must address it like one. Still, there is a layer to the warmth that I feel in his presence that defies my ability to deny my brother’s accusations both verbally and emotionally. I feel a fool.  


In truth, I had not even thought to consider the depth or nature of my feelings. The experience was such a rush, and one I feel so rarely, I allowed myself to drink it in without any depth of thought. A part of me resents Carver for placing such things so easily, even before myself. The stronger, more rational, portion of my brain knows that for all my irritation and my brother’s lack of tact, this is why I need him. He reads me well and opposes my every emotion. His opposition allows me clarity. The ability to reason these emotions and their place in my life and the safety of our family. A part of me, entirely selfish, resents the nature of things. In another life these feelings would not rot into agony so quickly. Still, I know that such feelings come with no real depth. If I ignore them they will drift away easily. 

Still... in the past, most of the people with whom I’ve experienced this with have drifted away just as easily. I am not certain Anders will leave so quickly.  


 


End file.
